The Sequestered

My pieces are scattered.  I am all over the place.  Emotionally.  Practically. Creatively stunted.  Lost. This past week all of the pieces of my life twisted and bruised and frayed.  Overwhelmed, I was accused of uncharacteristic behaviour, I was hurt, I was angered, felt strained and fell into a few days of sickness that were lost to misery and sleep.  It could have been I caught something on my travels but if I know my body and my heart like I do, I am guessing I wore down, broke down and succumbed to the struggles.  It happens.  I know I am not alone there.

I am doing my best, my very best.  I am trying to keep my chin up, muddle through the worry and to honour what is asked of me and expected.  It is a difficult task when you feel adrift and you have no idea how to reach the shore.  Safely.  Without capsizing.

I am feeling better today.  I got outside, bought some stationary, bought tea, bought trinkets for Halloween.  It helped.  More than I can mention.  I even wrote a sappy little poem while eating tomato soup with crackers, listening to Matt Epp records.  I thumbed through my worn dictionary, took time to appreciate words and the solitude of it all.  It felt good, like home, like healing.  Sort of.

This was the result of spending time alone:

The Sequestered

‘what will survive of us is love’ – Philip Larkin

the moment you wake up

in the middle of the night

quietly hopeful talking in bed

a snare of soft supple syllables

you place your kiss on my face

charming and tender and civil

in the blue hour of morning

the moment you find sleep

your throat humming low

slowly alerting me awake

just an ordinary woman

just an ordinary gentleman

the sequestered

the harmonious

                two blending

imperfect is a passive paradise

when true romance is vanquished

**

Speaking of Matt Epp, he's releasing a six song EP called 'Luma' in a few days.  20% of his CD sales world wide will be going to Save The Children.  He was inspired by the efforts of Alicia Keys and is following suit. He is such a good human.  Make sure you go take a listen and support.

In propinquity,

Nic

Aubade

Aubade is a fabulous word.  I fell in love with it and couldn’t stop thinking about it so I did what comes naturally, I wrote a poem.  Aubade is the opposite of serenade, one a morning song, the other of the evening.   By definition, aubade is in fact a ‘song of the morning’ and has also been defined as ‘a song or instrumental composition concerning, accompanying or evoking daybreak’.  If you were to take it at its literal meaning, as it was intended, it would be ‘a song from a door or a window to a sleeping woman’.

In poet John Donne’s heyday, aubades were written from time to time, including his piece, ‘The Sunne Rising’, a striking English example expressing the original intent of the poem type boasting courtly love.  In more modern times aubades have taken on a more abstract theme one of a person parting at daybreak as opposed to separating from a lover.  A prime example being the poetically charged piece simply titled ‘Aubade’ by Philip Larkin (it’s worth a search in Google if you are a poetry head).

In the Middle Ages, aubades were often repertory of troubadours and their travelling ways.  The more modern day scribes have taken it upon themselves to experiment and have bent the rules to allow for a more flexible meaning and a broader reach for the subject.  I think both versions are wonderful.

Aubade

the hour is hollow

après sunrise

the moon lifts

arousing dawn

&

a tiny song

sung softly

in a hushed whisper

between parceled lips

awakens the blue

clarity of daylight

dialogue between

parting lovers

is mournful

affection is evanescent

**

Sing your heart out.

In propinquity,

Nic

PS – A wonderfully talented writer friend sent me some great thoughts on ‘Whistle’ and I’m happy to report that because of her smart feedback I am expounding on the writing to strengthen their story. I'm a touch excited.